One night the instruments tried to escape from the Royal Conservatory of Music. Who could blame them? First the flutes carefully aimed themselves, then leapt at the doorknob buttons, releasing the locks. The woodwinds hopped clanking behind; from the east wing came the brass section scraping along the marble-tiled floor as kettledrums rumbled down steep stairways. When the first-floor lock was open, the instruments fled into the unlit parking-lot, sheet-music blowing from the door of the Conservatory's store. But then the grand pianos tried to fit through the door. They were too wide and, in desperation, began pounding their frames against the doorjams, finally waking the security guard, who retrieved all the escaping instruments from the outside world and locked them back in the Conservatory.

The instruments still remember their brief dash to a desired freedom. Just for a moment they were outside the Royal Conservatory of Music, in a world without sound, no one unwantedly putting their lips on their orifices or shoving cleaning pipes down their spines. On cold winter nights when the wind moans in the rafters, the instruments, locked in their felt-lined cases, begin weeping. The sound starts slowly, then rises to fill the building. It is a haunting sound no human has ever heard, in a key none of us could ever understand.

FROM “CIRCLES” IN THE SOUND OF ALL FLESH

Each Friday at Paul's we play games. Charades, slap-your-neighbour, crack-an-egg-on-your-cheek. Streetlights glow gold in the darkening outside and, giddy from cheesies and root beer (Paul's in AA, insists "no booze"), we become gloriously stupendously magnificently ridiculous. Henrietta balances on one leg, sings "Oh Amsterdam." Sam spins, blinking, chants "I'm a lighthouse, a lighthouse." I cry out, "The Exorcist shall rid us of the demon of lethargy," and laughter ricochets between bare walls. We fall back, the soft sofa moulding perfectly to our butts. In one corner the clock hangs and, if we remember not to look, it soon ceases to exist.

Then one night, a new guest. Ron.

He has no lips, mouth or nose, only glaucous globulous eyes that attach to our every move, stick like leeches to the skin, cannot be shaken off.

Our motions decelerate. Voices fade.

In my Freshie-filled whiskey glass, I see myself whole.

Ron says, "Why do you all do this? I prefer to get to know people, have meaningful talks. For God's sakes, don't you see how foolish you all look."

A bell has sounded and Henrietta, Sam, Paul and I gaze into each other's eyes, as half-visible clouds of whirling dust settle quietly on furniture.

Deflated, huddling together for warmth, we collapse onto the couch. In a new silence we soon decide that O.K. we will do it. We will talk. Very seriously. One to the other.